Best Friends and Broken Rules

Adhvik had known Vishakha since they were children who traded toffees and secrets in sun-dappled classrooms. She gave him her red candies because she liked the orange ones. He gave her his rough, unevenly torn comic books, not knowing she read them under her blanket with a torch. In second grade, when she got her first ever 'B' in dictation, she cried behind the banyan tree. He sat beside her silently, then misspelled every word on his own test the next day in solidarity.

Their worlds had grown apart over the years—his, loud and carefree; hers, structured like her timetable chart. But their bond had never loosened. Where she was pressure, he was pause. Where she was rules, he was rebellion. But he was always hers, in a way that no one else had ever been.

That evening, after the Ayaan visit, Vishakha didn’t need to explain.

She messaged him a single line: Same place. Need air.

He replied instantly: Already there. Got bhajjis. Bring that serious face of yours.

She arrived near the temple tank at twilight, the sky bruised in shades of peach and indigo. The tank’s ancient steps led down to still water that shimmered with the reflections of streetlights and fading rituals. There, on the third step, sat Adhvik—legs stretched out, hair ruffled like always, one paper bag of food in hand, and mischief in his eyes.

“No one in this city gets better molaga bhajjis than the lady outside the old bus stand,” he said, holding it out like a peace offering.

“You say that every week,” she replied, accepting it anyway.

He gave her a look. “Because it’s true every week.”

She smiled, finally. Just a little. Just enough.

They ate in silence for a while, the grease on their fingers a quiet rebellion against the stainless steel spoons and porcelain plates of her home.

He glanced sideways. “So... meet Mr. Matrimony?”

She rolled her eyes. “He asked if I still write.”

“Oof.” Adhvik grinned. “How dare he. Next, he’ll ask if you breathe or bleed.”

“I told him I write essays.”

“Liar.”

“Survivalist,” she corrected.

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, something that curled at the corners but never made it to his lips.

“You okay with this?” he asked after a while, voice gentler.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the water. “My father already sent the priest my birth chart. They say the horoscopes match perfectly.”

“That’s sweet,” he said. “You and I match on Spotify playlists. But I don’t see our families planning a wedding.”

She laughed. And it felt like coming up for air.

Later, as the streetlights flickered on and the temple bells rang for the evening aarti, Vishakha stood to leave. He walked her halfway to her lane, as he always did, then turned back just before the corner - like an unspoken ritual neither of them questioned.

But the next morning shattered the routine.

She stepped into the kitchen only to find her mother silent, stiff-backed, holding a steel tumbler like it was a weapon.

“I saw you,” she said coldly.

“With him.”

Vishakha blinked. “We were just..”

“You were seen, Vishakha. By neighbours. By aunty from across the street. Holding food, laughing. Is this how we raised you?”

“We were just talking,” she said, heart racing. “Nothing happened.”

Her mother’s lips thinned. “It doesn’t matter. People don’t see talking. They see a girl from a respected family loitering with a boy who doesn’t even tuck in his shirt.”

Vishakha stared at the floor. There was no right answer. Only landmines.

Her father didn’t say anything then. But his silence was worse. It meant the decision had already been made. There would be limits now. Schedules. Shadows. A wall was rising between her and the tank, her and her stories, her and Adhvik.

By evening, her phone was confiscated for “overuse.” Her tutoring hours were shifted. Her temple visits were now escorted.

And Adhvik?

He messaged her through their shared class group:

You okay?

She stared at the screen, typing and deleting.

Finally, she sent: They saw us.

A pause. Then: Do you want me to stop meeting you?

She hesitated. Her fingers trembled.

No.

He replied: Then I won’t.

But she knew walls don’t need consent to rise.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***